


Radio

by splinteredwinter



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Flashbacks, Fluff, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 06:43:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13161429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splinteredwinter/pseuds/splinteredwinter
Summary: Steve comes home to a house full of music, and the memory of how it all started.





	Radio

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bustybarnes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bustybarnes/gifts).



> This is my first fanfic in a decade, so I'm hella nervous about posting it! Big thanks to [writtenhistory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writtenhistory/pseuds/writtenhistory) and spiderling for being wonderful betas; any mistakes that remain are entirely mine.

Steve comes home to a dark apartment. He throws his keys on the console table in the foyer and listens to the music floating in through the kitchen, from the living room. It’s _Begin the Beguine_ , Artie Shaw’s clarinet carrying high and sweet over the saxophone.

He puts down the few groceries he’d gone to pick up – coffee, eggs, some of those dried pomegranate seeds that Bucky’s taken a liking to – and leans against the wall next to the fridge, listening. The song finishes, and he hears Bucky get up, shuffle through the collection of vinyl they’ve begun accumulating, and put another record on the turntable.

It’s Artie Shaw again, with Helen Forrest singing _All the Things You Are_. Steve rests his head back and smiles to himself. He can hear Bucky singing along in the dark living room.

 

> _You are the promised kiss of springtime_
> 
> _That makes the lonely winter seem long_  

 

Bucky’s singing to him. 

Steve pushes off from the wall and goes into the living room. There’s ambient light from the windows, just enough to show the lines of Bucky’s body where he’s lying on the floor next to the stereo, surrounded by scattered record sleeves. 

Bucky tilts his head back slowly and looks up at Steve, a slow smile building. He doesn’t move, just keeps singing softly as Steve watches him.

> _The dearest things I know are what you are_
> 
> _Someday my happy arms will hold you_
> 
> _And someday I’ll know that moment divine_
> 
> _When all the things you are, are mine_

 

His voice goes silent and the only sound in the dark room is the click of the record needle.

Bucky says, “Do you remember listening to the radio?” 

Steve catches his breath and shifts as his cock twitches.

 

\-----

 

It starts like this:

It’s early on Saturday evening and they’re poor. It’s not a weekend for dancehalls or movies; it’s a weekend for lying in the bed close to the radiator and trying to keep warm.

Steve has his worn sketchbook and Bucky has his dog-eared pulp magazine. Their battered radio is tuned to a jazz station, and Artie Shaw’s clarinet is in the air.

So is Steve’s cough.

He got soaked in that afternoon’s rain storm for some reason or other. Bucky hadn’t really listened to the explanation while he was helping to dry Steve off. It was probably something noble and necessary, but he was too worried about what the chill would do to Steve’s chest to care. Steve had only just gotten over bronchitis and his asthma was getting worse, and dammit why did Steve always have to do the right thing instead of the smart thing, especially when Bucky wasn’t there to help? It was maddening.

When Bucky thinks about it, it makes his own chest feel tight.

Steve coughs again, and once more, and then bends over with it, dropping his sketchbook as he struggles to catch his breath. Bucky abandons his magazine and reaches for Steve, wrapping his arms around him, but not too tight.

“C’mon, Stevie, c’mon,” he murmurs. He rubs circles on Steve’s back and tries to breathe deeply; as if taking the breaths by example would help Steve’s lungs do a better job.

Steve struggles to catch his breath between spasms, slowly tilting into Bucky. His hands reach up to tangle in Bucky’s pajamas, but the angle is awkward and the bed isn’t really big enough for the two of them anyway. In desperation Bucky finally leans over and pulls Steve into his lap to straddle him.

Steve makes a small surprised sound at finding himself in Bucky’s arms, but he’s too immersed in the struggle to breathe to protest. Instead he just buries his face into Bucky’s shoulder and his hands move to Bucky’s biceps, fingers digging in and leaving marks as he fights to breathe. Every few coughs he pounds a fist into Bucky, expressing the frustration he doesn’t have the strength to speak.

Impulsively Bucky slides one hand up into Steve’s hair to stroke and pet while the other continues to rub his back. This is the first time he’s allowed himself to hold Steve so close. Steve might be small and thin, but his body is wiry. He’s got soft hair, and he smells good. Steve smells like home. He finds himself nuzzling Steve’s hair, just a little bit, and the hand that’s rubbing Steve’s back widens its pattern to include Steve’s hips.

God, Bucky loves Steve. He’s always loved Steve. He can’t remember a time when he hasn’t loved Steve, wanted to take care of Steve, wanted to be everything to Steve that he’s not allowed to be. He shifts position when he realizes he’s starting to get hard. Really, abysmally, terrifyingly, uncomfortably hard. Bucky groans internally and tells his body sternly to behave, promising himself a jerk-off session later that night once Steve’s managed to fall asleep.

Steve interrupts all of this with a wheeze that sounds like the beginning of an asthma attack. Bucky says “I’ve got you, Stevie. You gotta breathe for me, punk.”

Steve makes a fist and hit Bucky’s shoulder, wheezes one more time and coughs a few more, and then manages to say “Who you calling a punk, you jerk?”

Bucky laughs in relief and wraps his arms around Steve to pull him close in a tight hug. And then he goes stock-still, because there is no mistaking the fact that he has just tucked Steve right against his very erect cock.

Steve goes still, too, and while the moment is brief it feels like forever to Bucky. There is nothing but the sound of the radio and beat of his heart.

Helen Forrest is singing with Artie Shaw’s Orchestra. It’s Bucky’s favorite song.

 

> _You are the promised kiss of springtime_
> 
> _That makes the lonely winter seem long_
> 
> _You are the breathless hush of evening_
> 
> _That trembles on the brink of a lovely song_
> 
> _You are the angel glow that lights a star_

 

Then Steve is pushing up against Bucky, clumsy and eager. His hips shift forward to press his own hardening cock against Buck’s heat, and his hands move from Bucky’s shoulders to the curve of his jaw.

“Buck?” he says, voice rough from coughing, and something else, something more.

Bucky is silent, filled with a mélange of conflicting emotions. The most potent of these is his desire for Steve – the boy he’s known his entire life, the man on whom he depends and who has depended on him for as long as he can remember.

Steve smiles suddenly, and leans in to kiss Bucky. It is artless, enthusiastic, unsophisticated, and filled with desire. It is completely Steve and it is, by far, the most erotic thing Bucky has experienced in his life up to that point. Bucky gasps against Steve’s mouth and his hands come up to steady Steve’s shoulders, fingers firm on that wiry frame.

He breaks the kiss and tilts his head to nuzzle at Steve’s neck, kissing along a prominent collarbone and taking the opportunity to catch his breath.

“Are you sure, Stevie?” he murmurs.

Even as he asks his hands caress Steve’s shoulder blades and down, only to slide back up underneath Steve’s shirt and settle warmly against skin. Steve shivers and nods.

“I’m sure.” Steve says. Then he hits Bucky on the shoulder and says in the voice that means he’s made up his mind and it’s time to _go already, Buck, what’re we waiting for we’ll be late_ , “I’m sure!”

Bucky laughs suddenly and wraps himself around Steve, using his size and strength to shift position so that Steve’s on his back with Bucky lying against him to one side. Steve normally abhors being manhandled in any fashion, but he accepts this calmly, instead looking up at Bucky, waiting. His eyes are the bluest Bucky’s ever seen them, and they’re locked on his.

Bucky makes a low sound deep in his chest as he meets Steve’s gaze and then he’s taking off Steve’s pajama top, his hands unsteady so that he’s nearly tearing off buttons and ripping cloth and Steve is knocking his hands away and doing it for him because “You’re terrible at mending buttons, Buck.”  

For a long, quiet moment Bucky looks down at Steve. He tilts his head and kisses him slow and deep, waiting for Steve to open his mouth before moving to taste him. Steve makes a low sound and breaks the kiss to pant, and Bucky nips at his lower lip before kissing along his jaw and down to the hollow of his collar bone. 

Steve groans in frustration and digs strong fingers into Bucky’s hip, pulling at him without effect, urging him for more. “C’mon, Buck,” he mutters, voice rough with desire.

Bucky murmurs “Ok, ok, punk,” and nips the point of Steve’s shoulder while slipping his hand down the front of Steve’s pajama bottoms. He traces the line of Steve’s cock and then curls his hand around him, jerking gently at first and then with more confidence. He bites his lower lip briefly when he grasps Steve, and his hips push forward to rub his own cock against Steve’s thigh as a high-pitched sound escapes him.

Steve arches in surprise and his hands move to Bucky’s shoulders, grasping and pulling at him. Bucky moves closer willingly, nuzzling and mouthing at Steve’s neck as he continues to jerk his cock, using the pre-come leaking from the tip to slick his fingers.

The sounds that Steve makes as Bucky works his cock fascinate him, and his focus pinpoints on wringing as many of them from Steve’s throat as possible. He experiments slowly, taking his time and memorizing what drags the most abandoned sounds from Steve. He kisses Steve again, teeth scraping against his lower lip and chasing after his tongue before he breaks away to whisper roughly into his ear “C’mon, Stevie, come for me.  I want it.”

Steve shudders as his body responds to Bucky’s voice, cock pulsing as he comes across his stomach and Bucky’s hand. He surges up and holds onto Bucky, arms and legs clinging as he shivers through the aftershocks of his climax, struggling to catch his breath.

Bucky pulls back, suddenly worried that another coughing fit coming on. Steve sees what he’s thinking and shakes his head. “’m good, Buck,” he says against his neck, still pressing up. He runs his hands down the muscles along Bucky’s flanks and then his hips, tugging. He smiles and kisses Bucky, open-mouthed and hungry.

Bucky moans and shifts to lie over Steve more fully, holding his weight on his forearms so he doesn’t overwhelm Steve’s smaller frame.  He kisses Steve back with a matching hunger and starts working his hips when Steve fits a leg up between Bucky’s thighs. He fumbles briefly with his shorts and pushes them out of the way, lifting up briefly and then settling back down to rub his cock through the mess on the flat plane of Steve’s stomach with a low sound at the slick warmth.

He suckles at Steve’s tongue and ruts against him intently, coming with sharp sounds and jerking hips as Steve moves beneath him. “Christ,” he mutters, going boneless and dropping onto Steve with his full weight. Steve hisses and pushes at him, growling “Jeez, Buck, let a guy breathe!”

Bucky laughs under his breath and rolls over, tugging a corner of the sheet free to clean them up a bit. He retrieves Steve’s pajamas and his own shorts at the same time. It’s grown dark outside and the only light in the room is the soft glow of the radio dial. Bucky turns it off, and the bedroom falls silent.

“I always did like that song,” Steve says.

“Which?” Bucky asks, still dazed by the unexpected change to the foundations of his entire life.

Steve hums the song that had been playing just a few minutes earlier.

 

> _And someday I’ll know that moment divine_
> 
> _When all the things you are, are mine_

 

He can’t carry a tune and his throat is rough from the cold that he’s definitely still getting and he looks ridiculous when he’s acting like a sap, but Bucky loves every minute of it. He pulls up the coverlet and curls up against Steve’s back and says seriously “I guess that’s our song, then.” 

Steve makes a rude sound, but he presses back into Bucky’s warmth, and he holds Bucky’s arm tightly where it’s settled around his chest. 

That’s how the listening to the radio starts. They don’t talk about it, not really. They’re still struggling to survive, and meeting the world’s expectations about who to love, and Steve won’t ever admit he needs Bucky and Bucky won’t ever admit he likes to be needed, but on the days that they have time to listen to the radio together, lying on the bed that they share, well, they have each other.

And the radio.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The song in this fic can be found [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PhBQd2VMWzA).


End file.
